


Salt in the Wounds

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Domestic, Family, Fluff, Gen, Historical, John-centric, Kidnapping, M/M, Magical Realism, Parent John Watson, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Rescue, Romance, Selkies, Suicide Attempt, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is home from the Great War, but he's never fit in to this tiny fishing village. One day his life changes forever when he meets a selkie named Sherlock. From then on his life is never what he thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 1917: Beginnings

John Watson coughed in the chill morning air. His lungs hadn't been the same since the gas. Rolling stiffly out of bed, he lit the oil lamp and fumbled for some breakfast. The only decoration on the bare cottage wall was a calendar showing April, 1917.

Stretching against the aches, he headed out of the cottage to his little boat. The village hadn't really changed in five hundred years. John’s cottage stood away from the rest; he hadn't exactly received a warm welcome home. The Watson family had a history of strangeness. This hadn't been helped by John running off to London as soon as he could or that his sister insisted on being called Harry and spending too much time with Joseph Wright’s daughter.

John no longer cared. The promises of London had ended in a muddy, bloody trench. If he never doctored again it would be too soon. Fishing was in his blood, so that's what he'd returned to. Twenty-four and his life was over.

The small rowboat slipped quietly into the water. His shoulder ached as he bent to the oars. He was alive, by some miracle. Too many others weren't. His mind skidded from those dangerous thoughts as he moved into the low sea fog. Most of the villagers fished in the same place, but John had his own places. They'd been shared on many cold mornings with his father, passed down from his grandfather and before. Up ahead he saw a seal and decided it must mean good luck.

Swimming over, the seal hung around his boat as John got to work.  The rhythms of fishing came as easy as breathing, driving out the echoes of the war. He tossed the creature a few fish while he worked, humming an old, old song without thought.

Just as the morning fog started to burn away, the peal of a church bell rang across the water. John started and turned, squinting towards the village. The seal vanished with a splash.  The bell came again, urgent, an alarm. He picked up the oars and started to turn for shore.

Only a few strokes away from his fishing spot the seal appeared again, throwing itself at the bow of his boat, rocking it so violently John had to grab on and nearly lost an oar.

"Bloody hell!" John cursed. The seal barked and dove. It came up again a few meters away, barking again.

John stared at it as it swam away on its back, watching John. He looked back towards the village and the seal rushed back to bump his boat again, not quite so violently, then took off again.

Wondering if he'd cracked after all, John set off after it, bending to row as fast as he could, wondering just where in the hell the creature was leading him. There were no fairy stories, not in this life, but he found himself following a seal when every instinct told him to get back to the village and help with whatever emergency it was.

They moved quickly through the choppy gray water. John knew these outcroppings and small islands better than anyone else in the village, thanks to an adventurous spirit his father had encouraged.

John’s arms ached with the strain as they came around an island to a small sandy cove, surrounded by near cliffs. The seal gave a quiet bark and went right up on shore, looking back at John.

Bringing the boat close to shore, John pulled it up behind some brush. The seal watched him as he took his club from the boat and checked the knife on his hip. Satisfied, he crept up the steep path, looking for trouble.

It didn’t take long for John to hear the too loud voices with an accent that told him they came from no where near here. Forcing himself to stay calm, John crept closer, keeping himself low to the scrubby grass as if he were trying to cross no man’s land. Stupid, these men. They had a small fire. Six of them, lounging around, clearly unafraid of anything. The seventh was looking down at a small figure. John’s heart stopped as he recognized Jessie from the village. She seemed unhurt so far, but her arms were wrapped tightly around her legs.

John crouched low, watching them. They all had guns and knives and carried themselves like killers. But not soldiers.  Nodding silently to himself John moved to where he could observe without being seen. His blood hummed as his hand flexed around his sturdy club. Patience he could do after so many hours in the trenches waiting for the artillery to begin again, or for another order, or another stream of wounded men. Shaking his head and focusing on the now, he waited for a mistake.

One of the six stretched and scratched himself, muttering about taking a piss. John watched as he moved away from the others and down the hill towards a copse of trees. John counted to ten and followed him nearly silently. The man stumbled and John realized he was at least a little drunk. Good. Reaching the trees the man rested his rifle against a tree and started to undo his flies. A seal barked somewhere in the trees and the man chuckled and reached for his gun, moving towards the sound. John took four fast steps and brought his club down hard on the back of the man’s head.

The man collapsed in a heap. John bent down and picked up the man’s rifle, checking it. Four bullets were in it. He glanced back up the hill, but so far there wasn’t any movement from the others. Moving away from the stranger he hid himself again, expecting someone would miss the man and come looking for him.

Sure enough, after a few long minutes, someone else came moving towards the trees, grumbling and calling a name. He nearly tripped over the first man. Cursing he turned to yell for the others, but John stepped out and hit him with the club, cutting him off.

The blow came a moment too late though, as there were shouts from the camp. John cursed to himself as he moved into the trees, taking position behind a rock and resting the length of the barrel on it to take careful aim. He waited until the men were close, then shot the one running a bit behind. The first one turned and John took him out, then the third and fourth in rapid succession.

The rifle was empty, and that still left the leader and Jessie. John breathed, but remained where he was, watching and waiting. The men had to have a boat somewhere near the island, he just prayed the man wouldn’t leave without a sign of where he was going next.

The seal gave a loud bark to his left. John jumped up, hurried forward just long enough to grab a pistol from one of the dead men, then took off towards the sound. There was a gunshot and John nearly tripped in his hurry.  Coming out of the trees he saw the leader with one arm around Jessie, trying to take aim again as Jessie struggled and kicked at him. Barely slowing, John took a breath, brought the gun up and fired, hitting the man between the eyes.

Jessie screamed and jerked away. John lowered the gun, running towards her and the seal. The seal gave another bark and made for the water, vanishing beneath the waves before John could even see if it was hurt. Shaking his head, he turned his attention to Jessie. She was shaking, so he pulled off his coat and put it around her. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

John sank the other men’s boat, leaving their bodies where they had fallen. They weren’t going to bother anyone else now, though he wondered why they’d had Jessie.  As John rowed them back to village, Jessie explained that she’d run from home and the strangers had caught her. She didn’t say why she’d run. It was afternoon when he pulled up to the familiar shore. Immediately the villagers spotted Jessie and hurried forward to help her. Someone thrust John’s coat back to him and he took it without comment.

Jessie’s father pushed through the crowd, hugging her tightly. John tried to slip away, but Andrew Wills, who’d never liked him anyway, grabbed his arm and made sure John came to the village square with the others. By the time they got there, Jessie had started crying as her father frowned. “What happened?” Someone asked.

“She’s pregnant,” growled Jessie’s father. Eyes turned to John. His own eyes went wide and he raised his hands.

“Now wait I…”

“What did you do, John Watson?” Jessie’s mother stepped close and slapped him hard enough to sting. John’s mind reeled.

“No daughter of mine is marrying a Watson,” announced her father.

Andrew gripped John’s arm tighter, bruising. “Told you, blighter was half crazy before he came home from the war.”

John sought Jessie’s eyes, but she was turned away. John’s shoulder’s sagged. Whoever the father truly was, it was less dangerous if it were John. “Please, let me do my duty.”

Jessie’s father hauled off and punched him. No one held him back. Another blow came that would have driven him to his knees if Andrew wasn’t still holding him up.

“That’s enough,” the mayor stepped in. He took John’s chin and forced him to look up at him. “You are banished, John Watson. Leave this village. Now.”

John made no protest as Andrew dragged him to the edge of the village. He threw a ringing punch. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and just throw yourself off a cliff.”

He let go and John fell to his hands and knees. Why didn’t he? Harry might find him in a little while, or she might not, and even if she did, no point in them both being banished. Finding his feet again, he headed away from the village, stumbling towards the sound of the sea.

He reached the edge and looked down. The tide was coming in, covering the tiny spit of beach. Not that far of a drop, but, like most, he couldn’t swim. The tide would carry him out and no one would ever have to bother about him again. Salt air stinging his eyes, he stepped off.

The water was cold and drove the air from his lungs. The salt burned his fresh cuts.  He sank as the waves dragged him away from shore. Suddenly, something came up from below and pushed his head back above water. He gasped on instinct, opening his eyes for a moment before sinking again. Another shove, then another, gasping precious tastes of air. The fourth shove his hands landed on something wooden and solid. He hauled himself up with his last bit of strength, finding himself clinging to the bottom of an overturned boat.

When John’s eyes opened again, he was on solid ground, waves still lapping at his feet. A pale man with dark curly locks was leaning over him, worry in his sea-blue eyes. Glancing at the man’s arm, John could see a bullet graze. “You’re…a selkie?”

A tiny smile twitched across the man’s mouth as he touched John’s cheek with tenderness. “Obviously.”


	2. April 1917: Purpose

The selkie leaned down and kissed John. John tangled a hand in that dark curly hair, suddenly, gloriously glad to be alive. He broke the kiss and lay back in the sand, giggling. "Do you have a name?" He asked finally.

"Sherlock," he said with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"John Watson." John offered a hand but instead of shaking Sherlock pulled him to his feet, looking him over. John took a good look himself. Sherlock was naked and pale, taller than John and wiry.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "John Watson. Recently returned from Belgium as you were badly wounded in the war. You were studying to be a doctor, but believe yourself incapable of doing so now. Which is untrue."

John gaped. "How in the hell?"

"I have been watching you a long time. Besides," he moved Johns torn shirt." You clearly have recent wounds. And your hands are those of a surgeon." He turned John's palm over and studied it.

Suddenly, John remembered a night seven years before. Fourteen and already making plans to escape to London. There had been a village dance but none of the girls would give him any attention. More than a bit drunk, John had stumbled to the moonlit shore. Even then he'd know he hadn't belonged and he'd cried and cursed about his lot until he sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, eyes closed as he listened to the waves. He mumbled a promise to himself about how he would be better. A soft kiss brushed his lips and he kissed back, tasting promise. When he opened his eyes he was alone save an ocean splash

“That was you,” John stared up at Sherlock, one hand straying to touch his chapped lips.

“Yes.” Sherlock cupped his cheek.

John leaned up and kissed him back. There had been a few girls in London, and in the trenches men found comfort where they could, but this kiss was very different from all of them.

Sherlock broke the kiss this time. “There is an empty cottage here on this island, and a village you will find far more friendly nearby.”

“Yes. I will stay.”

Sherlock put a finger to his lips. “I can only become human every seven years, and I must return to the sea by dawn. You may become lonely.”

“I don’t care.” John pulled him into another kiss, tugging Sherlock farther up the beach. He lay Sherlock down in the short grass, kissing him as he peeled off his soaked trousers. Sherlock gasped as John lay on top of him, grinding against his quickly growing erection. Moaning against Sherlock’s lips, he took both their erections in one strong hand, stroking them together until they both quickly came.

As their breathing slowed, John started shivering in the cool sea breeze.

“You need shelter,” said Sherlock against John’s shoulder. He moved to help him up.

Nodding, John picked up his trousers as he followed him. “I can get supplies from the village?”

“Yes. The waters around here are treacherous. They’ve been looking for someone to mind the place and watch for wrecks. You, being a doctor, as well as knowing the sea, makes you uniquely qualified.”

“I’m not a doctor,” protested John through chattering teeth. “Never finished my studies before enlisting.”

“But you went far enough that the army gave you medical duties.”

“Never enough doctors.” John rubbed his face. “So I can stay here, maybe help people?”

“We will help people,” promised Sherlock.

They reached the small cottage. It faced back towards shore and John could see the shoals and outcroppings that made the place dangerous. In the distance he could see the smoke of fires where the other village lay.  Sherlock stood behind him as he looked and wrapped his long arms around John’s chest. John sighed contentedly and leaned against him, glad for a little bit of warmth, though he was still shivering. “This is lovely, but are there any dry clothes in there?”

Sherlock nuzzled his neck. “I think so, they keep the cottage supplied for castaways.” He turned and pulled John inside.

John stripped off his sea-soaked shirt and got a fire going while Sherlock looked through a trunk. He found some dry things and shook them out. Before handing them over though, he caught John’s lips again. They tumbled back onto the small cot and John made love to Sherlock all over again.

A kiss woke John. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock leaning over him. “I have to return. This is how it will be, if you stay. Seven years.”

John smiled at him and touched his cheek. “You’ll still be here, even if you’re a seal. I’m okay with this, really.”

A small nod and hope in Sherlock’s eyes as he held John’s hand. “Go to the village. It’s run by a man named Mycroft. Tell him you’re taking up residence on Baker Island. He’ll see you are taken care of. There’s a boat at the dock.”  A quick kiss and he let go, slipping for the door, but still looking back. “I will be with you, John.”

“And I with you. I swear it.”

Then Sherlock was gone. John sat in the bed and watched the sun rise through the window before rubbing his scruffy face. Go to the village, report for duty. Maybe try to sneak back and let Harry know he was still alive. Give everything a few days to calm down though.

Mid-morning he made it down to the water. John smiled as Sherlock swam up to the little boat and gave a bark. “Good morning to you too,” he smiled, touching his head. “You better show me the safest way to get to the village.”

Sherlock did, and John started memorizing the way. As he arrived at the village, he could see it was a bit bigger than the one he’d come from, maybe even verging on a small town. He got directions from some folks cleaning their catch on the docks and soon found himself at a neat village hall. After a short wait with a pretty young woman occupied with paperwork, he was shown into an inner office.

The man behind the desk was a bit older, dark hair graying at the temples. John was surprised that he reminded him of Sherlock in some ways, though he didn’t know how that could be. He carried the air of a man far more important than just the mayor of this little village. The man put down his pen and looked up at John.

John met his gaze steadily. After a moment, Mycroft stood. “So I understand you’ve taken up occupation of Baker Island?”

“Yes.” John found himself standing at parade rest.

“Just back from the war?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“A man who plays his cards close to his vest, I see. Well if it is peace and quiet you are seeking, that is a good place to find it. But if you see any wrecks, you’ll be expected to take care of them.”

“I understand; I was medical in the war.”

“Good.” Mycroft scribbled something and handed it over to John. “Take this to Mrs. Hudson at the general store. She’ll get you supplies.”

“Thank you.” John reached for the paper and turned to go.

“Oh, and John?”

He turned back, raising an eyebrow.

“As you may have noticed, there are a number of seals in and around our village. We do not hunt or harm them.”

John wondered, but he gave a short nod. “Of course.”

Mrs. Hudson was a cheerful older woman. She produced a warm cup of tea. “Hard to get with the war, but we got some in the other day.” John sat while she put together a box for him to take back to the island.

“Can you tell me about the village?”

“Oh, well, we’ve been here a long time. Mostly fishing, though they’ve got a small factory back side of town for the war effort. We’re a quiet place, really.”

“What about Mycroft?”

She gave a smile. “Wouldn’t worry too much about him. Oldest family in the village. He keeps a good eye on the place. Wouldn’t ever admit it though.”

John nodded and finished his tea. “Can I get some clothes as well? Afraid I ended up here without much all.”

“Oh of course, love. I’ve got some jumpers that will suit you just right. It’s good you’re going be on Baker Island, makes the village feel safer to have someone out there.”

“I’m glad to do it, ma’am.”

She gave a wave. “Mrs. Hudson is fine, dear. And it’s no bother. You’re doing the village a favor; we can do the same for you.”

John collected the box of supplies, feeling his shoulder twinge between the exertions of the day before and perhaps a change in the weather. Mrs. Hudson seemed to notice and clucked her tongue. “I’ll get one of the boys to take that to your boat.”

He wanted to protest, but really couldn’t, not if he wanted to be able to row back to the island with both arms. A couple village children helped with the box and another package of clothes and soon he was back in the water, making for what he knew for certain was now his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise more excitement in the next chapter now that John's settling in to his new home.


	3. November 1918

“Here you go,” John grunted as he hauled the man up into his boat, knowing Sherlock was giving him a shove from below to help him. The man lay gasping on the bottom of John’s boat as he turned for the other survivor clinging to the wreckage, careful of the rocks himself.

“My daughter,” muttered the man, trying to sit up and rocking the boat.

“Lie still,” growled John. “I’ll have her in a minute.”

He saw her hands slip as the icy water took its toll. Sherlock pushed her at John as she lost her grip. John got the boat just close enough to toss a life preserver. She managed to grasp it and John pulled her over and up onto the small boat, setting her next to her father.

“We’ll get you safe and dry in just a minute,” he promised, shouting over the rising storm and turning his boat back for the island.

Sherlock helped give the boat a shove away from the rocks and John bent to his oars, glad for the help as he was fighting the quickly worsening weather as well as the tide.

Finally, all of them soaked, he reached his shore. After making sure the boat was securely tied, he first picked up the girl, then reached down to help the man up. He had a long gash along the side of his head; John would check for other injuries when they were inside.

There was a nudge to his legs, and he looked back to see Sherlock urging him back up the hill to his cottage with a short bark. John smiled a bit and adjusted his burdens and trudged up to the warm hearth.

After peeling off his soaked peacoat, he quickly got the girl into a fresh dress and one of his own warm jumpers, setting her near the fire with a cup of tea while he turned his attention to her father. The gash required stitches, but there weren’t any other wounds he could find. The girl sniffed as John tucked him under the covers of his own cot.

“Mister, is Da gonna be okay?”

John pulled up a stool next to her and got his own cup of tea. “Yes he is, just needs to sleep. You should probably get some sleep too.”

She looked at her tea and the fire. “We didn’t mean to get caught in the storm.”

“Sometimes the weather changes, not the first people to get caught out like that, won’t be the last.”

Sipping the tea thoughtfully, she looked up at John. “Did that seal help us?”

John smiled a little and leaned closer. “Can you keep a secret?”

She nodded quickly.

“He’s my friend. That’s why you should always treat the seals around here with kindness.”

Her eyes went wide and she stared. John took the cup from her hands. “Come on, you should sleep too.”  
He tucked her into the cot next to her dad and watched her fall asleep next to him. Another smile crossed his face, perhaps with a hint of sadness, as he settled into his chair by the fire and fell asleep.

 

Early the next morning he took the pair back to the village. There was festivity in the air that made him wonder as he stepped into Mrs. Hudson’s shop.

“Oh John, it’s wonderful,” she said, giving him a hug.

“What’s happened?”

“The war is over,” she beamed. “They’ve signed an armistice. November eleven.”

John glanced at the calendar on the wall and rubbed his shoulder unconsciously. “That’s really great,” he smiled.

“Here, I got some of that ointment in,” she reached under the counter and produced it. “Should help with the aches, what with winter coming on.”

“Thank you.” He pocketed it. “Brought back a family today, father and daughter.”

“I saw Amos and Lilly go up to the doctors. Don’t know why, you always do a fine job patching them up.”

“But I’m not a doctor.” He sipped the tea that had materialized in his hand.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Having you out there has been a blessing for sure. I’m sure Amos and Lily would agree, as well as more than a few others.”

John shrugged, embarrassed. Mrs. Hudson added some more tea and biscuits to a box. “I’m good, really,” he protested.

“Now dear, you can never have too much tea. Besides, todays a day for celebration.”

He thanked her and went out. Someone offered him a beer and he took it, sipping it with his box tucked under his arm. It had been a while since he’d had a beer, and he thought about going for a pint. But after more than a year on the island the idea of being in a crowded room wasn’t a pleasant one. Instead, he thanked the man, drained the pint, and turned back for his little boat.

Someone else handed him another pint before he got more than five feet down the street. He drained that one too and was certainly less steady as he made his for his boat, not noticing the gathering storm clouds.

 

John found himself singing one of the songs they used to sing in the trenches as he made his way back towards the island. Sherlock appeared once he was far enough from shore. John gave him a smile. “The wars over, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave a little bark and nudged John’s hand.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just had a pint. Two.” The wind whipped the waves and the boat rocked dangerously. John adjusted his hands and pulled for his island, starting to sing again. Sherlock gave another bark and John looked over just in time to see a large wave. He turned the boat, but it was nearly too late. An oar was lost as he tried to keep the boat from swamping. John cursed and tried to right himself, but another wave sent him tumbling into the water.

Struggling against the frigid water, John felt Sherlock  slide next to him, as if trying to protect him from something. Before he could think, he gave a strangled cry as the brutal waves dashed him against the rocks, dazing him. He choked on seawater, struggling to find Sherlock in the crashing, waves, to keep his head above water, to survive.

Another strong shove and John was too confused to tell if it was Sherlock or the waves. But then suddenly there was sand under his back and he could hear Sherlock barking just before he passed out.

 

When John woke up he found he was on a couch. A very nice couch, he realized as he set up. And nearly naked, save his pants and a warm blanket. A fire blazed in the hearth and as he looked around he could he was in a very nice room, filled with books and overstuffed chairs. He put a hand to his aching head, wondering how he’d ended up here.

“You’re awake.” Mycroft’s voice behind him. John turned, keeping the blanket at least covering his middle. “There’s no need for modesty. I was the one who put you there.”

“This is your house? How? I thought I heard…”

“Whatever you think you heard, Mister Watson, you have a concussion.”  John could see Mycroft had a tumbler in his hands as he stayed half in shadow. “You should sleep more. “

Before John could say anything else, Mycroft was gone again. With a sigh, he settled back down on the couch.

When John woke again, daylight streamed through the window. He rubbed his eyes and saw his clothes were dry now, folded neatly next to the couch. He dressed quickly and stepped out of the study, following his nose until he found the dining hall, as opulent as the rest of the house. Mycroft ate alone at the end of a long table. He rang for a servant, who brought another plate. Uncomfortable, John sat a few chairs down and ate quickly. The food was good and filling, much better than what he normally ate. Mycroft set down his fork and watched him eat his last few bites, sipping his tea.

“I assume you heard the news about the war?”

“The armistice? Yes I did.”

“Now that the war is over, I will see to it that you get a radio installed at your station. Mrs. Hudson can monitor it.”

“I don’t need to cause her more work.”

“Nonsense. It’s a safety measure. And this way you can report anyone you pick up right away, save someone from a night of worry.”

John pushed around the last of the sausage, reluctant to take anything else from Mycroft. But what he said did make sense. He nodded. “Thank you.”

“You are doing a good work out there. Your boat was lost, but I’ve already made arrangements for you to get another one.”

“Thank  you,” said John. Mycroft started to stand.

“Can I ask another favor?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I’d like to expand my cottage. There’s not a lot of room if I have guests that spend the night.”

Mycroft studied him a moment, then gave a short nod. “I’ll arrange for some workman to take care of that before winter sets in. Mrs. Hudson will radio you when they’re on their way.” He turned and strode out before John could thank him again.

After breakfast, a servant took him out of the estate and down to a private dock. The boat was clearly new and a bit bigger. John started to protest that it was too much, but the servant was firm that Master Mycroft insisted John take it.

The weather was bright and clear, the waters calm, as John made his way back towards his island. He was almost home before he saw Sherlock. The seal leaned up and nudged John’s hand. “I’m fine. Thank you. It was stupid of me to try to come home last night.”

Sherlock gave a bark of agreement and splashed back into the water. John smiled and pulled for home, looking forward to his own hearth and another cup of tea.

 


	4. May 1922

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John is called to see Mycroft early one morning, this wasn't what he was expecting.

“John, are you in?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came over the radio. John stretched in his bed and went to the microphone.

“Yes, I’m here. Good morning.”

“’fraid there was a bit of trouble early this morning. We’d like you to come into town. Master Mycroft is asking for you.”

“Of course, I’ll be there soon.” John stretched and glanced out the window at the perfectly clear May day, wondering just what Mycroft would want from him. The calendar read 1922 as he grabbed himself some tea and toast.

Sherlock gave him a bark of greeting as he reached the boat. John reached out touched him. “Two more years, then I’ll get to see you again. Properly.” He bent to his oars and headed for the village.

He stopped in to see Mrs. Hudson first, but she hurried him along to see Mycroft. People of the town greeted John as he went, and he gave them small smiles back. After the years he’d been here, most of the townspeople knew him, and they always made him feel far more welcome than anyone in his old village ever had.

He’d lost touch with his sister, but had heard that she’d finally left the village. He hoped wherever she’d ended up she was happy. There was a trunk of things at the cottage that she’d saved when he’d been exiled, including nearly all of his mementos from the war. God willing there would never be a war like that again.

He walked into the city hall, unsurprised to find Mycroft’s secretary outside his office, despite the early hour. She nodded him at the door and he opened it.

Mycroft was behind his desk, as usual. Less usually, he was not filling out paperwork when John came in. Even more bizarre, he stood and regarded John seriously. John had the feeling either he was about to be asked to do something unpleasant, or possibly murdered. Maybe both. Instead he swallowed and met Mycroft’s gaze. “I understood you wanted to me to come?”

“I did, Mister Watson. I have a request to ask of you. An unusual one, but a task that you are quite capable of fulfilling.”

There was silence and John realized he was expected to speak. “What is it, then?” He was growing irritated with Mycroft’s games.

“One of the old man of our town passed away last night.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s slightly more complicated. He was the only guardian of his grandson.”

 _Ah_. John kept his face neutral. “No other family?”

There was the slightest hesitation that made John wonder. “He’s the sort of boy that loves the sea. As mayor of this town, I am asking you to take him.”

“Me?” John gave a short laugh. “I don’t know the first thing about raising a child.”

“I understand you were close to your own father.”

John closed his eyes a moment. “And he died when I was twelve. How old is this boy anyway?”

“Four. I have the paperwork ready here, needing only your signature.”

Taking a few deep breaths, John glanced out the window at the view of the harbor. “What about school?”

“You can teach him what he needs to know. When he gets a bit older perhaps we can make arrangements with him to stay with Mrs. Hudson during the week.”

“You put an awful lot on that woman.”

Mycroft walked around his desk and into John’s line of sight. “She is more than capable of any task I give her. But I would like you to take the boy, not her. He belongs on the waters, not in a shop.”

John opened his mouth again, but closed it. The truth was, sometimes he did get lonely out there. And it would be nice to have an extra hand to help with the boat and all the little tasks that never seemed to end. “Fine,” he said shortly.

“Sign here, then.”

John bent over the desk and glanced over the paperwork. He raised an eyebrow. “His last name is Watson-Holmes?”

“Having the Holmes name may give him some advantages later in his life, if he chooses to pursue them.”

Biting his lip, John regarded Mycroft, but the man had turned away, face lost in the early-morning shadows. Mycroft and his secrets; If that was how he wanted things, who was John to argue? A little boy had lost his grandfather and John was suddenly about to become a father. He signed on the line.

“This way,” said Mycroft, as soon as John set the pen down. He led the way out of his office and down a back corridor.

“What happened to his mother and father?” asked John as he hurried to keep up.

“Father was killed in the war before he was born. Mother died of influenza when he was an infant.”

“I see.” Common enough story these days. Whatever reason this boy was important to Mycroft, John would probably never know, and in the end, it really didn’t matter.

They went through another door and Mycroft stopped. A little boy was sitting on a bench, one small bag by his side. He’d been crying, but at the sight of the two men he stopped and sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. The dark, curly hair reminded John of Sherlock, but when he dropped his hands to stare at them, the eyes seemed more like they belonged to the man standing next to him. He glanced at Mycroft, but his expression was unreadable.

“Hamish,” said Mycroft, voice always completely controlled. “This is John Watson, the man I was telling you about.”

Hamish slid off the bench, staring up at John. Crouching down the best he could brought John nearly to Hamish’s eye level. “Hello, there.”

Hamish offered a hand, polite. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Oh now, you’re going be staying with me, might as well call me Dad.”

“Dad,” Hamish tried the word out. “Master Mycroft says you have a boat?”

“I do, a little one.” He glanced up towards Mycroft, but the other man was already gone. Straightening, John took Hamish’s hand and picked up the bag. “I live on Baker Island, out there in the bay.”

“Grandfather says you help people. Said.” Hamish’s nose wrinkled.

“Hey, it’s okay.” John bent down to pick him up, carrying him outside. “You’re allowed to miss people when they’re gone. And I do help people. You’re going to help me.”

“Okay,” said Hamish quietly.

John carried him to his boat and got him and his bag settled, pulling back towards the island. Sherlock swam up once they were away from the town and Hamish smiled for the first time since John had met him. He reached out to gently touch Sherlock’s head and John smiled. “His name’s Sherlock.”

Hamish nodded. “I’ve seen him before. Grandfather always said he was good luck.”

“Well he’s very special. And he’s going to take care of you just as well as he takes care of me. Helps with the rescues too.”

Looking from Sherlock to John, he bit his lip. “He’s not a seal, like, um, most seals, is he?”

John looked at him, then over at Sherlock, who seemed to nod with approval. “No, he’s not. But that’s our secret, okay?”

Nodding and yawning, Hamish curled up in John’s lap. “I won’t tell.”

“I know. Let’s get you home.”

                                                                                                                                                                  


	5. April 1924

John was surprised he'd fallen asleep at all; he'd been humming with anticipation for the last week. Hamish was excited too, as if this was an extra Christmas. He'd promised to knock before coming into his dads room this morning. But John must have fallen asleep because he was awakened by soft lips brushing his. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, John tugged him into bed, kissing him back. Sherlock tasted like the salt of the sea. He moaned before breaking the kiss to look at Sherlock’s face.

His human face was certainly older than John remembered; then again, John had just passed thirty himself. The wild sea-blue eyes were the same though, framed by the dark curly hair that was so much like Hamish's. Sherlock studied his face in return and John wondered if he looked different when Sherlock was human. Rolling them so he was on top, John kissed him again. "I love you."

Sherlock froze as if he hadn't been expecting those words. He reached up and touched John’s cheek, looking small and vulnerable. "You do?"

"Of course." John turned his head and kissed Sherlock's palm, watching his face.

Relaxing, Sherlock held his eyes. "I...love you too."

John smiled and reached down to cup Sherlock's hip, suddenly well aware the selkie was naked and fresh from the sea. Before he could do anything about it, there was a knock on the door. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and chuckled against his throat. "Hamish is very excited to meet you."

“He has met me," Sherlock watched John get up and reach into a drawer. He pulled out a pair of trousers and threw them to Sherlock.

"Not like this. Put those on."

Sherlock looked a little confused, but got them on while John watched. Turning, John opened the door. Hamish bounced on his heels. "Papa is here?" Sometime in the past year he'd decided Sherlock was Papa, no matter what form he was in, but never in front of other people.

“Yes he is.” John stepped to the side. Hamish and Sherlock stared at each other. Then Hamish ran over to hug his waist. John reached over to grab the camera Mrs. Hudson had given him for Christmas last year and took a picture of the tight embrace. The resemblance was uncanny. If John didn’t know better, he would swear Sherlock was the boy’s father.

Hamish let go first, turning to grin at his dad. John put down the camera and kissed the top of his head before cupping Sherlock’s cheek and leaning up to kiss his lips. “Let’s have some breakfast.”

Since Mycroft had remolded the cottage, downstairs had become the kitchen and sitting area, with a sturdy table in between to divide the space. Steep stairs led up to a second story that contained three bedrooms: John’s, Hamish’s and a guest room that had seen far too much use this past winter. Sherlock followed them downstairs and sat at the table while Hamish set it for three and peppered him with questions. John smiled as he watched them together. Hamish had always been curious about everything, and now that Sherlock could talk to him, he seemed incapable of stopping his thoughts.

As Hamish tried to continue through bites of food, John reached over and put a hand over his. “Eat, son.”

“Yes Dad.” He turned his attention to his plate. Sherlock smiled slightly and John squeezed his hand before turning to his own food. Sherlock watched the pair a moment, then clumsily imitated eating with a fork.

“Do you…” started John.

“No,” said Sherlock shortly, concentrating on eating like a person. John sipped his tea and tried not to watch too closely. Hamish ate silently but watched the two of them, eyes darting from one to the other as he inhaled his breakfast. Finishing, he put his plate on the counter and darted upstairs, coming back down with a jumper from the stash of clothes they kept for guests.

“Here, Papa, it’s chilly today.” He offered it as Sherlock finished eating and put his fork down.

Sherlock took it and pulled it over his head. He regarded the boy. “Why do you call me Papa?”

Hamish shifted from one foot to the other before climbing into Sherlock’s lap. He pointed at where John was washing up the dishes. “Because he’s Daddy and that makes you Dad too, but I can’t call you both Dad.”

“I see.” Sherlock reached up and ran a hand through Hamish’s curls.

“My hair’s just like yours,” Hamish smiled and touched Sherlock’s hair in return. “Grandpa said my first dad died before I was born…you aren’t my Dad, are you?”

John dropped a fork clattering against the sink. Hamish and Sherlock both turned to look at him. Sherlock looked back at Hamish and touched his cheek, looking as if he wanted to say something, but thinking better of it. Instead he looked at John. “What matters is, he’s your Father.”

Hamish nodded. Getting up, he walked over and hugged his Dad. John smiled at him. “Let’s go outside and take some pictures of us.”

“I’ll get it!” called Hamish as he pivoted and ran up the stairs to get the camera. Sherlock stood and stretched. John wiped his hands and walked over, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, resting his head against Sherlock’s chest.

“I missed touching you,” he said softly.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him tenderly. John thought his heart might explode from the love and tenderness bubbling up inside of him. Any anxiety he might have felt at their reunion melted away. There was the click of a camera shutter and he pulled away from Sherlock to look at Hamish, standing with the camera and a cheeky grin.

John shook his head. “Come on.” He led them outside and set up the camera with the remote so he could get all three of them together in front of the cottage. Once everything was settled he took three shots, just in case.

Then the camera was put back in the cottage. John held Sherlock’s hand as they walked around the island, Hamish running ahead and back, wanting to show Sherlock every nook and cranny.

Finally, though, the little boy’s energy started to flag. John took his hand. “Time for your nap, Hamish.” Hamish grumbled, but let his dad lead him back home.

“I want Papa to tuck me in,” he demanded.

“Okay,” John smiled.

While Sherlock was taking care of Hamish, John put the kettle on. He was sitting on the couch sipping his tea when Sherlock came back down. He smiled and handed Sherlock a cup of his own as the selkie settled onto the couch next to him. “Hamish is a very good boy. You are an excellent father.”

John blushed. “Thank you.” He looked at his cup. “You know something about his parentage.”

Sherlock sipped his tea. “I do. There are many secrets in this town.”

John glanced at him. “You aren’t the only selkie.”

“Obviously.”

“But Hamish looks like you, except…his eyes.” John put down his tea. “He’s Mycroft’s son.”

Sherlock looked pleased that John had puzzled it out.

“So you’re related to Mycroft.”

A short nod. “We share a mother.”

John’s brow furrowed as he thought, looking back at his tea as if that would give him answers. “But then why didn’t Mycroft claim him?”

Sherlock sipped his own tea. “You’re human, John, certainly you can understand.”

John rubbed his temple. After a moment he sighed. “She was married. He looks just enough like him that people could talk. Safer to keep him out here with me.” John shook his head. “How do you know all this?”

“Mycroft and I speak.”

“You speak?” John looked at him incredulously.

Sherlock met his eyes. “He is half-selkie.”

John closed his eyes and remembered. “The time I almost drowned and woke up at his home…right.” He opened his eyes again. “You trust me to keep his secrets and your own.”

“Obviously,” repeated Sherlock, setting down his cup before leaning in to kiss him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, slipping into his lap as he kissed him back. He slid his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, grateful that Hamish always slept for a solid hour. Sherlock groaned and pulled John down, grinding against him.

By the time Hamish came back down, John was fixing lunch, whistling as he worked. Sherlock was over by the radio, examining it. Hamish walked over to him and started explaining until John called them over to eat.

The weather turned bad by the time they finished, so John got a fire going while Hamish sat and tried playing chess against Sherlock. He lost badly, but Sherlock started explaining some of his moves. John just watched them together, happy for this time. Life with Hamish was much better than before, and he certainly didn’t mind sharing these precious hours with Sherlock. They were a family, after all.


	6. July 1926

John woke early from habit. He stretched in his bed, glancing out the window. Dawn barely peeked over the horizon, a day promising to be warm and calm as the last two weeks. They could all use some rain, but July days like this weren’t bad at all.

Making his way to his dresser and the bowl of water there, John splashed his face and looked in the mirror. . Gray was starting to come into his temples now, just a few strands that told him his twenties were behind him. His body was still firm and strong though, tanned from the sun and hands roughened by work. There hadn’t been anyone in need of rescuing for a while, but of course they were always ready. Downstairs he could hear the kettle starting to boil, which told him Hamish was awake.

By the time he shaved and dressed, Hamish was setting the table. John had always been an early riser, but Hamish had him beat. He smiled at his son; eight years old, slender and strong for his age, dark hair always wild. There were always more rescues in the winter, so instead of attending the village school regularly, John taught him using lesson plans from the schoolmaster, bringing Hamish in once a month or so for the schoolmaster to test, depending on the weather. It was an arrangement that suited everyone, but currently he was free for the summer.

And Hamish already had breakfast and tea ready. John knew he was excited to be going fishing. He loved the water and being out on it. Unlike John, he’d even learned to swim a bit. John took his place at the table and sipped his tea. “Thank you.”

Hamish smiled and picked up his own fork. “You’re welcome.” He dug in with the sort of appetite a young boy could muster. John ate a bit slower, knowing they would still get out on the water before the day got too hot.

They gathered what they would need for the morning and headed down to the little rowboat they still used. There had been some talk about getting John one of the new powered runabouts, but for now, John preferred the quiet. Probably would end up getting one by winter though, then they could power through the stormier seas. Mycroft would provide it, like he took care of everything else.  Part of John didn’t like the man paying for everything, but he knew he was doing it for the good of the town as much as for John and his son. And there was a small stipend every month too, that John mostly tucked away for when Hamish was older.

The waves gently rocked the boat as John rowed them out to one of his favorite fishing spots. Hamish sat in the bow, preparing the nets. There was no sign of Sherlock this morning, but that wasn’t entirely unusual. He’d show up once they had some fish on board they could feed him. John breathed in the salty fresh air and pulled the oars again. Suddenly a shot rang across the still waters.

"Get down," hissed John, looking for the source of the sound. Hamish obeyed, watching his father.  Cocking his head to listen to the echoes, John nodded and turned the boat, heading for a small patch of rocks where he knew the seals liked to sun themselves.

Coming around the rocks, John saw two men hauling a bloody seal into their boat.  His heart stopped a moment before thudding sharply against his chest with rage. Ducking his head, he pulled harder on the oars and went right at them. One of the men raised a gun and he threw himself to the side as a gunshot cracked. He landed with a grunt, shaking the boat. He raised his he raised his head as they drifted closer. The man started taking aim again. Hamish pressed the net against his dad's hand.

John stood and heaved the net at the man a moment before the gun went off again, falling overboard in the process. Kicking for the surface, he came up next to the other boat. Grabbing the edge he yanked down, sending it rocking violently as the men cursed at him.

"Hey!" Hamish yelled to distract them. John got ahold of a leg and tipped the one with the gun into the water. John hauled himself into the boat and tackled the second man, pinning him to the bottom of their boat and punching him. He quickly stopped fighting. Raising his head, John saw Hamish crack an oar against the other man's head as he tried to climb into their boat, sending him sputtering into the water.

John flipped his prisoner over and quickly bound his wrists with some rope in the bottom of the boat. The other man appeared to be drowning and John briefly considered letting him. Instead he leaned over and hauled him out. The man took a swing and John ducked it, smashing the man’s head against the edge of the boat repeatedly.

"Dad!" Hamish’s voice snapped him out of his rage. The man was limp and bloody. Panting, John dropped him and looked at Hamish as he brought their boat alongside. He didn’t look at the poachers, only at his father, concern clear in his gray-blue eyes. "You're hurt."

John looked down at himself. Besides the blood on his shirt, there was a pretty deep gash on his arm. Now that the adrenaline started to recede the wound began to burn as salt water ran down his arm and into it. "Get my kit," he said through gritted teeth as he turned to look at the seal.

Not Sherlock. Relief flooded his system. But these poachers still had to be dealt with. "You picked the wrong bay," he growled at the conscious one. He watched John with fearful eyes.

"Here," Hamish leaned over and took his dad's arm, wrapping a fresh cloth around it to try and stop the bleeding.

"I’ll need stitches," said John. "Get to Mycroft’s estate, closer than town. You can't take all of us, and I can't row."

Hamish bit his lip, but nodded. "I'll be right back."

John took his little medical kit, planted a kiss on Hamish’s head and watched him row off until he vanished behind the rocks. Opening the kit he took out needle and thread and concentrated on sewing up his arm, trying to ignore the pain and the two poachers.

Dizzy by the time he finished, he squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. Calmly, he opened his eyes again and looked at the pair. The bound poacher had his eyes closed, apparently resigned to his fate. Leaning forward, John checked the other one. Alive, but with a nasty gash on his head. Grimly, he bound up the man too, just in case he woke up anytime soon.

There was a nudge against the side of the boat. John leaned over and smiled tiredly at Sherlock, rubbing his head. He wanted to speak but was mindful of the two strangers. Instead he took comfort in Sherlock’s presence, figuring that if Hamish was in any danger, Sherlock would be with him.

The sound of a motor broke the morning quiet. Sherlock bumped Johns hand and dove. John watched as a small runabout came around the corner. Hamish stood next to the driver, clinging tightly to the rail and pointing. Mycroft himself sat behind them, tight lipped and impeccable as ever. The driver cut the engine so they could drift closer. Hamish threw a rope and John caught it, letting the smaller boat be towed over.

Mycroft’s man leaned over and helped John up and into the motorboat. Leaving the two poachers for now, he secured the other boat and then started carefully backing up so they could tow it. Mycroft was looking at the dead seal, and John briefly wondered if it was someone he knew.

Hamish helped his dad to a seat. "Thank you," said John. Hamish hugged him tightly. John smoothed his hair. "I'm okay. You did good."

When John looked up Mycroft was watching them, face unreadable. "Why don't you give Master Mycroft a hug too?"

Hamish glanced at his father’s face as Mycroft started to protest. Turning, Hamish wrapped himself around Mycroft, hugging him tightly. "Thank you."

Mycroft stayed stiff, but rested a hand on Hamish's back. "You were very brave, Hamish. You and your father are invaluable to this community."

Smiling up at him, Hamish studied Mycroft’s face. "Thank you, sir." He let go and went back to sit next to his dad. Mycroft crossed his legs and stared out across the water.

Hamish looked at his dads arm. "I bet you could do better stitches," said John. "Sometimes it's hard to work on yourself.

"Master Mycroft has a doctor waiting."

John nodded. "You did good today, I'm proud of you."

Hamish smiled at him. "Thanks, dad."

John patted his arm, mindful of Mycroft just a few feet away. Mycroft’s face was carefully expressionless. Hamish glanced between the two of them. “What are you going to do with the bad guys?” he asked.

Mycroft didn’t even turn his head. “They will be dealt with.” His voice was cold as ice.

John shivered, making Hamish look up at him. He gave a tiny twitch of a smile. “Master Mycroft  will handle everything.”

“They tried to kill you,” said Hamish softly, looking his dad’s arm again. “And, well, you know,” he glanced towards Mycroft, clearly not wanting to say anything else in front of him.

“But they didn’t,” answered John, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder and bring his attention back. “We’re fine.”

Hamish nodded and swallowed.

“Hey, I was a soldier, remember? It’ll take more than a couple of idiots like these to kill me.”

Hamish gave a tiny smile and leaned against his dad. John put an arm around him. They’d be back on land very soon. He had no doubts that men would be dealt with very thoroughly indeed.


	7. November 1931

John carried in an armload of wood, quickly shutting the door against the cold sleeting rain. The radio played softly, some wordless music while Hamish leaned over his maths homework. John couldn’t help but smile as he watched his son and crossed to the fireplace. Hamish had reached that gangly stage of thirteen when he was all limbs and nothing seemed to work together quite how it was supposed to. Putting the logs down and feeding one into the fire, he spoke without looking over at him. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad,” grumbled Hamish, fisting his hands in his curly hair. “At least maths make sense.”

“Don’t neglect your literature though,” said John, standing and thumping a thick volume by Hamish’s elbow.

Hamish rolled his eyes and picked up his pen again. John ruffled his hair and Hamish batted his hand away. Still smiling, John reached over and turned the radio up as the news came on. More bad news about factories closing and unemployment going up. John was very glad he didn’t have to worry about that. There were rumors Mycroft might close the factory in town, but so far he’d been making every effort to avoid it. John took fewer supplies from Mrs. Hudson and slipped a little extra money into the woman’s pocket. He was considering asking Mycroft to reduce his stipend. After all, everyone needed to pitch in.

 He picked up some sewing and settled in by the fire. Hamish was growing so fast John was half-tempted to put him in a skirt. Already it was clear he’d be taller than his father, not that it was particularly hard to do. He turned the work towards the light of the fire, listening to the storm kicking up stronger outside, body tensing as he knew this was just the sort of weather they got called out in.

Sure enough, the wireless crackled to life. “John.” John dropped his sewing and went to answer while Hamish turned off the radio and got up to fetch their supplies.

“Here, Mrs. Hudson, what is it?” answered John.

“Family of five was due up here an hour ago from a village south. They never arrived.”

“We’re on it,” said John, taking his mackinaw from Hamish. At least they had a powered little boat now that made it much easier in weather like this. He quickly banked the fire before heading out, ducking his head against the driving weather, Hamish on his heels.

In a few minutes they were heading out, Hamish manning the spotlight up front while John steered the boat. The wind and waves whipped cold and salty around them, making it difficult to see. “There,” shouted Hamish over the roar of sea and engine, pointing at Sherlock’s dark form, barely visible above the crashing waves. A faint bark carried above the noise and Hamish shouted directions to his Dad as Sherlock led them across the stormy bay, light of the village just visible in the distance off to the right.

“Here,” yelled Hamish as they reached treacherous rocks.

John slowed the engine as they moved closer, straining to hear above the howling winds. “Left,” called Hamish and John carefully turned the boat. There, three people clinging to bit of wreckage.

“Take the wheel, Hamish.” John shouted, moving forward and quickly securing a rope around his waist. The other end was tied to the deck. Hamish moved their motorboat closer as John climbed out to the very edge, another rope in his hands with a life preserver on the end. He threw it out to the trio. Sherlock nudged it closer to them. In the waves and the darkness it would be nearly impossible to see the seal unless you knew he was there. John watched as they put the smallest one in the preserver, limbs slow from the soaking cold. If he had to, he’d jump out there himself, though at least Hamish could swim. Finally they were settled into the preserver and John hauled it back with help from Sherlock keeping the child in the ring.

Leaning down, John hauled the boy up and set him on the deck. He chattered from the cold and crawled back towards Hamish. John picked up the ring and threw it again. In a couple minutes he had the mother. A vicious wave kicked the little boat, knocking John off his feet, head ringing from hitting it on the edge of the boat. Gritting his teeth he glanced back to make sure Hamish was okay. His son gave a nod as he checked the engine.

John turned back and threw the ring just as the man lost his grip. He squinted in the rain, hoping Sherlock would get him to the life preserver. After a few very long minutes he felt a tug on the rope and hauled hard, determined to bring the man to the boat. Finally he was alongside, though barely conscious. John leaned over and got his hands under the man’s arms, heaving him into the boat. He pulled him over to his wife and son. “There were five of you?”

The woman nodded. “My other son and daughter got separated from us.” John squeezed her hand. “We’ll look,” he promised, giving them blankets and raincoats to try and keep them from getting any wetter. “And there’s a warm fire when we get in.”

“Bless you,” she said as he pulled away.

John ignored the sentiment and took the wheel from Hamish. “There’s two more children.”

Hamish nodded and untied the rope from his father’s waist and tied it around his own as he moved back up to the bow. He took the searchlight and scanned the water as John carefully nudged the boat forward. Suddenly, Hamish jumped into the water. John cursed and cut the motor, dropping a short anchor before darting forward, shining the spotlight at the water.

The boy looked so small in the crashing waves. John had to trust that he had seen something, that Sherlock was with him, that Hamish had tied the knot tightly enough. He heard a bark over the storm and started hauling on the rope.

After a few long moments he saw Hamish, holding a smaller figure. They reached the boat and Hamish handed the boy up before accepting John’s help up himself. He looked down at Sherlock, who gave a small bark and shook his head. No sign of the other one, then.

The little boy was half-drowned and John turned his attention to him while Hamish pulled up the anchor and started the motor again. “My daughter!” said the woman when she realized they were heading away from the rocks. The little boy coughed up water as John rolled him onto his side.

“I’m sorry,” said John honestly, making sure the boy could breath and putting him in his mother’s arms. The salt water stung the cut on his head, but he ignored it and checked the rest of the family over, knowing Hamish would get them home.

Hamish tied the boat up as they reached the little island, helping shift the mother and children to the docks first. “Take them up, Hamish,” said John. “I’ll get him.”

The father was nearly unconscious, somehow struggling to stay awake. John could admire the man’s determination. “We’ll get you inside, warm,” promised John, managing to get him onto the dock without dropping him. Hamish met him halfway up to the cottage and helped get the larger man inside. The woman sat in a chair by the fire, her children in her lap, just staring.

“Get on the radio,” said John, getting the man into the cot they kept down here. “Tell them we’ve got four.”

Hamish nodded and went to call Mrs. Hudson before going over to boil some water for tea. John grabbed dry clothes and blankets. “We thought we could get up here before the storm,” she said.

“What’s your name?” asked John, pressing a teacup into her hand. “Abigail. Joshua had heard there was work here.”

“I am sure Master Mycroft will make sure you are all taken care of,” promised John.

“Dad.” Hamish touched his elbow and John turned. “Let me take care of that cut.”

John nodded and sat in one of the kitchen chairs while Hamish cleaned up the gash. “Your old man’s got a tough noggin.”

“It still might need stitches,” said Hamish softly.

“Fetch me the mirror, I’ll tell you.”

John took a good look at it and told Hamish it would heal well enough on its own. He pulled his son into a hug. “You’ve done good tonight, go on to bed.”

Hamish headed upstairs. John went to check on the family. Outside the storm was starting to abate. Abigail was putting her kids into the cot next to their father. “We’ve got a proper guest room upstairs, bed big enough for all of you. He should probably stay here for now.” At least he’d properly passed out now.

Abigail blinked and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” John carried the older boy for her and let them into the guest room. He went back downstairs and cleaned up from earlier. Joshua started to stir with a moan and John hurried to his side. “You’re safe. Your family is safe.”

He opened his eyes. “Hannah?” he asked.

John swallowed. “Is that your daughter? No, we didn’t find her, I’m sorry.”

He rubbed big hands across his face. “Abigail and the boys?”

“They’re upstairs, I’ll take you to them.”

John soon had Joshua settled with his family and headed back downstairs one more time. He pulled out his journal and sat and wrote by lamplight until he heard footsteps on the stairs. “Go to bed, Hamish.”

“Can’t sleep,” he said quietly, curling up in the other chair.

John looked at him a long moment. “I’ll be right back.” He went up to his own room and returned with a small package. “Was going to give this to you for Christmas, but here.” He handed it to Hamish, who tore it open curiously. “It’s a journal for you. I know writing things down helps me, thought it might help you too.”

Hamish hugged him. “Thank you.” He grabbed a pen and curled up in the chair again.” John got up to get them both some tea. He looked into the fire, listening to the scratch of Hamish’s pen and starting to nod off.

“Dad?”

“Yes?” John blinked a few times.

“Their daughter drowned, didn’t she?”

“Probably, I’m afraid.” There had been a few others through the years they couldn’t save, but none that young.

“Why would they even be out in the weather like this?”

“A lot of people are desperate for work.”

“I know things are hard for a lot of people in the village,” said Hamish quietly.

“Yes, we’re very lucky. We don’t have to worry about work or money with this job.”

Hamish nodded. “Come on, Dad, let’s go to bed.”

 John touseled his hair. "All right." He smiled a bit as Hamish headed up ahead of him, knowing that his son was growing into a good man.


	8. May 1933

John walked out of Mrs. Hudson’s shop when he heard the shouting. He turned the corner just in time to see Hamish take a swing at one of the three boys surrounding him. He connected solidly and the other two jumped on him. Hamish struggled to throw them off, but the boys broke and ran when John reached them with a solid hand on their shoulders, helping the one Hamish had punched. John turned Hamish and saw tears in his eyes as he breathed heavily, wiping at his eyes.

John met his eyes. “You’re fifteen, Hamish, you don’t get into fights. Tell me what happened.”

Hamish shook his head and turned away from his father.

John took a deep breath. “Come on then, Mrs. Hudson has tea.”

Allowing himself to be led into the shop, John settled him in Mrs. Hudson’s back room, sharing a worried look with her. Once he had the boy settled, he followed Mrs. Hudson back out to the front. “I want to know what those boys said. Hamish’s never started a fight in his life.”

Mrs. Hudson glanced towards the back room. “Oh there’s always rumors.”

John narrowed his eyes. He knew he didn’t spend much time in the village, but he’d been trying to encourage Hamish to take the boat and go by himself. After all, he had to learn to deal with people. So he’d been helping out Mrs. Hudson a few times a week during the day. “You must tell me.”

She found something to busy herself with. “He has both your names. People know Master Mycroft must pay you to stay out there. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in any woman here in town…”

Blinking a few times, John’s look turned incredulous. “People think I’m buggering _Mycroft_?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled a bit. “I know, it’s ridiculous. But people will talk. And Hamish does look a bit like him.”

 _More than you know_ , thought John, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Well, thank you for telling me.” He patted her arm and returned to the back room. Hamish had his hands wrapped around the mug, but he’d barely touched it, staring into space. John sat down next to him and the young man turned.

“Who is my birth father?”

John met his eyes. He’d never lied to Hamish, and his son had never asked this question before. For a moment John saw the scared little boy he’d taken home. “You really want to know?”

Hamish nodded, searching John’s eyes.

“This is just between you and I,” he said quietly. “Master Mycroft.”

The air stilled as Hamish stopped breathing for a moment, eyes turning inward. “So then Master Mycroft and Sherlock are related.”

Now it was John that knitted his brows. “How do you know that?”

“Because I can understand Sherlock sometimes.”

John stared at his son. He knew, logically, that Hamish had a quarter selkie blood in him. But he’d never imagined that. “How long has that been going on?”

Hamish dropped his eyes, wringing his hands. “Not long, maybe since my birthday.”

With a deep breath, John put a hand on Hamish’s shoulder. “Come on, then. You should speak with Master Mycroft.”

“If you think he’ll want to talk to me.” Hamish pulled away, anxious.

John raised his chin, meeting his eyes again. “You’re my son and I love you. He’ll talk to you.”

Swallowing hard, Hamish nodded and followed him out. John took a circuitous path, making sure people wouldn’t see them walking to the office. He knew Mycroft was a busy man, but this was important. For all of them.

Athena showed them right in. Mycroft was working over some paperwork, but he looked up, face unreadable. “Yes Mister Watson?”

John steadied himself and set his jaw. “We need to speak.” He put a hand on Hamish’s arm.

Mycroft’s eyes flickered to the young man, then back to John. “There is nothing to speak about. Hamish is your son.”

“He’s your son by blood.”

Mycroft set his pen down with a small thump. “Why do you say that?” his voice turned hard.

John opened his mouth, but it was Hamish that stepped forward and spoke. “Sherlock. You’re related to him. I look mostly like him, but enough like you that people talk, so you sent me to stay with Dad. But you gave me your name too.”

For once in his life Mycroft Holmes was speechless as he stared at Hamish.

The boy stepped closer to his desk. “You’re part selkie, like Sherlock. Which means so am I.”

John moved next to Hamish and looked between the two. “He’s very clever like you as well. Sherlock told me years ago, but I didn’t tell Hamish until today.”

Mycroft took a few deep breaths. “Would you leave us, John?”

“Of course.” John inclined his head, gave Hamish’s shoulder a squeeze and saw himself out. He walked down to the docks, but there was no sign of Sherlock. Knowing Hamish would find him again he headed over to the pub.

Getting a pint, John settled at the bar. There were a few townsfolk here, but it was quiet given that it was mid-day. Halfway through his pint, John felt a hand drop onto his shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t the town hero.” The man was more than half-drunk.

“Just here for a pint, same as anyone else.” He gently removed the man’s hand.

“Not here for a little…” he made a rude gesture.

“No,” said John shortly, turning back to his pint.

“Don’t get lonely out there, just you and your boy?” He dropped his voice. “Or does your boy keep ya company?”

John swung without thinking, lay the man out flat. “Don’t you ever, _ever_ imply something like that.” The handful of townsfolk froze, staring at John standing over him.

“He’s crazy,” grumbled the man, slowly getting to his feet.

John was aware of people watching, was aware of how it looked. His mind flashed back to all those years ago, a circle of villagers and desperation so deep he’d thrown himself off a cliff.

To his surprise, one of the townsfolk stepped over and grabbed the drunk by the front of his shirt. “John Watson is a good man. You aren’t welcome in here.” He hauled the man to the door and tossed him out.

Stunned, John found a pint pressed into his hand and a kind touch to his shoulder as the townsfolk started talking about all the good he’d done, out there on the island. Tears threatened in his eyes. All these years…he’d never thought many people noticed.

“Thanks to you,” said one, “my son is alive and gone to London to learn to be a doctor.”

John rubbed his face. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Dad?” Hamish’s voice cut through the crowd.

Stepping away from the bar and the townsfolk, he went to his son. “How are you?”

“Good,” he eyed the folks watching them. “What’s going on?”

“We just wanted to thank your Dad for the work he’s done, you too.” One of them smiled at Hamish.

“Ah, well, thank you,” said Hamish politely. “Come on Dad, we should head home before it gets dark.”

“Right,” John patted his arm. “You better drive. Thank you, truly, all of you.” His knee wobbled once they were outside and Hamish caught him, patting his arm. He kept his silence until they were back on the boat heading for home.

“You’ve done a lot of good, Dad, they should be grateful.”

John shook his head. “Did you have a good talk with Master Mycroft?”

“Yeah, he wants me to do some training with him when I come in to work with Mrs. Hudson.”

“He can open a lot of doors for you, Hamish.”

Hamish met his father’s eyes. “I don’t want anything more than to keep doing what we’re doing.”

“All I’m saying is, don’t let me hold you back.”

“You never have, never will.”

 

 


	9. September 1936

“Dad, you here?” Hamish knocked and opened the door to the cottage.

John was sitting near the fire, sipping a cup of tea. He looked up in surprise. “Thought you were staying in town tonight?”

Hamish got himself a cup and sat down next to his father. “There was a bit of a fight in the pub, some of the men want to go fight in Spain. Don’t worry, I stayed out of it.”

John shook his head. Hamish kept him informed about what was going on with the continent and none of it looked good. “You’re eighteen, lad. I wasn’t much older than you when I went to fight. But we aren’t at war, at least, not yet.”

“But it’s coming, isn’t it?” Hamish sipped his tea and looked into the fire.

“Sounds like it. You know the one I was in we called it the war to end all wars.” He rubbed his knee. “Believe me, son, the last thing I want is to see you fight in a trench. But if we do end up fighting, and you choose to go, I’ll understand.”

“I could join the Navy, I mean, I know the sea.”

John rubbed his face, reminding himself that Hamish was a grown man now. “Master Mycroft could get you a commission, I’d wager.”

“No.” Hamish shook his head. “I’d enlist. If I do it now…maybe I can go through medical training like you did.”

John looked at him, studying him in the firelight. His dark hair curled in his eyes and he knew more than a few of the village girls considered him a catch. He’d dated a few, but not seriously, at least as far as he knew. Most of them balked at the idea of living on Baker Island, but Hamish had made it clear his job was here, helping his father. Even if John encourage him to spend more time in the village these days. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t getting any younger and it was better for him to be around people his own age.

“I’d be honored,” said John, honestly. “But this isn’t the kind of decision that can be made in a night.”

“There’s one other thing to consider. I…I’ve been seeing someone.”

John was surprised. “Seriously?”

Hamish nodded. “Yes. Emily Miller. A few months now, actually. I…just wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

“You can always tell me anything. I don’t know her, do I?”

“Not really. I’d like to bring her out here to visit, if that’s okay. Especially if I’m going to enlist.”

“A lot can happen while you’re away. But of course you can bring her.” He’d never brought any girl out to meet his old man, and John felt a certain nervousness at the prospect. “How much does she know?”

“None of the big stuff, not yet. I haven’t introduced her to Sherlock either,” he smiled. “Figured I’d start with you.”

“Probably just as well not to make her think you’re mad first off.”

Hamish looked at him seriously. “If I do marry her, though, I’ll tell her everything. Before I do.”

“Of course. You don’t want to start a marriage with secrets. I just hope she’s a girl you can trust.” John finished his tea and watched his son.

“She is. I’ll bring her out tomorrow.” He stood up and kissed his dad’s hair. “I’m going on up to bed. Goodnight.”

“Night.” John watched him go, then pulled on his jacket and headed down to the beach, settling to a seat in the sand. Sherlock came up and rested his head on his leg. John rubbed his head. “Did Hamish tell you he’s thinking about leaving? And he’s got a girlfriend? He’s going to go, I’m sure of it. It was easier for me, I didn’t have anyone to worry about but Harry when I set off for London. And I was younger than he is now.”

Sherlock nuzzled him and John smiled. “We did good, he’s a great young man.”

Raising his head, Sherlock met his eyes and nudged his chest.

“You mean I did good? Well you helped. And I wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t saved my life in the first place.”

Sherlock rested his head on his leg again. John leaned back on his hands and looked up at the star-splashed sky, just comfortable.  
**  
The next afternoon John was doing some work on his boat when he heard the roar of an engine coming up to the island. Knowing it was Hamish with Emily, he wiped his hands on his trousers and stood, watching his son guide the little craft in to the dock with practiced ease.

She was heavyset and pretty, with blue eyes and dark brown hair coming loose from the ride over. Hamish helped her out of the boat. “Pleased to meet you Mister Watson,” she said with a slight curtsey.

John smiled. “You as well, Miss Miller. Come on up, I’ll fix lunch.” Hamish took her arm as they went up the hill to the cottage. He busied himself with lunch while Hamish showed her around the cottage. “It’s cozy,” she smiled.

Hamish leaned in and kissed her gently. “Dad’s worked hard.”

“You both have, I’m sure.” She perched on one of the chairs. Hamish glanced at John, who was studiously keeping his eyes on fixing food.

“I’m thinking of joining up, Emily.” Hamish sat next to her.

“I figured you would.”

He was surprised. “You did?”

She smiled. “You’ve been spending more time in the pub and with Mrs. Hudson. Almost everyone is talking about how our island might not be enough protection. And you’re very brave.”

John stepped over with sandwiches. He leaned close to Hamish. “Keep her, son.”

Hamish blushed and took Emily’s hand. “I don’t know what will happen.”

“No one does, do they?” Emily smiled softly at him. “You can write me, then if you get stationed somewhere, perhaps then we can take the next step. Or if war does come, we’ll see what happens then.”

Leaning over, Hamish brushed hair out of Emily’s eyes and kissed her. “I do want to marry you.”

To his credit, John managed not to drop his plate. Emily pulled away from the kiss first and smiled at John. “Is that okay with you, Mister Watson?”

“Well it seems Hamish is amenable, Miss Miller, so how could I object?”

Hamish laughed. “I will speak with your father. But I agree, we should wait on making long-term plans until after I’m settled into the Naval Service.” His smile faded as he glanced at his father. “And there are some things we should speak about.”

Emily glanced between them. “Of course.”

John picked up the plates and handed them to Hamish. “Why don’t you go down to the shore. Might even see some seals today.”

Hamish swallowed and nodded, taking the plates. “Come on.”

John watched as he led Emily down the hill, saying a silent prayer. Once they were out of sight, he went to the radio. “Mrs. Hudson,” he called. “Can you let Master Mycroft know I’d like to see him? Not an emergency or anything.”

“Of course, John. Is everything all right?”

“Never better, Mrs. Hudson.”

**  
Hamish ended up taking Emily back to town before he came back up to the cottage. He ran a hand through his hair as he came back inside with the empty plates. “I think Sherlock likes her.”

“How did she take it?” John put the plates in the sink and studied Hamish’s face.

“Good, actually. Believes me about all of it. Says there’s been legends since this place was a village about the Selkie folk who live here. Only told her about Sherlock though, of course. Told her I had some selkie blood, but she didn’t press for specifics.”

“She’s a good woman,” said John with a smile.

“She wants to come out here and help you some, when I’m gone. Keep you company I suppose.”

“Well, not like I bar the doors. She’s welcome to visit when she wants .” And the truth was he knew he’d be glad for the company. After the last fifteen years of having Hamish around, it was even strange when the boy was gone for a day or two to town. He reached over and pulled Hamish in for a hug. “I’m very happy for you.”

“I’m glad you like her, Dad. I’m going to go back to town tomorrow and see about enlisting.”

“Of course. I’ll go to town with you.”

**  
The next day while Hamish was busy, John stepped into Mycroft’s office. For once the man wasn’t scribbling at paperwork behind his desk, he was standing at the window, looking towards the sea. “I take it you heard about Hamish joining up already,” said John to his back.

“I did. He wishes to enlist I take it.”

“Yes, he doesn’t want your help.” He saw the way Mycroft shifted. “But there is one thing you could do.”

“And what would that be, Mister Watson?” his voice was as calm as if talking about the weather instead of a boy they both loved going off to a probable war.

“He’d like to go into medical, as I was.”

“I will do what I can.”

“Thank you.” John turned away to show himself out, knowing how reticent Mycroft was about everything.”

“John.”

He froze in his tracks. Mycroft had never called him by his first name. He turned back and studied the man staring out the window as if his life depended on it. “Sir?”

“I’ve read your military records.”

That was hardly surprising. “Nothing particularly interesting in there,” said John lightly. “I fought, same as plenty of others.”

“You received a number of medals. Even after your injury you had a recommendation to return to London and become a full doctor. But you returned home.” Mycroft turned finally and looked him over.

This time it was John who looked away. “War changes people,” he said quietly. “I hope to God there isn’t another one, and if there is I hope Hamish is spared the worst of it. But I can’t prevent him from going and doing what he feels he needs to do.”

Mycroft walked slowly to his desk and took a seat. “There was a reason I chose you to raise Hamish. I’ll get him into the medical service, but I won’t interfere with his military career otherwise.”

“Thank you,” said John again, meaning it.

Mycroft picked up his pen as way of dismissal. John showed himself out, taking a deep breath once he was back in the light of day. Hamish would be okay, he had to believe that. Maybe war wouldn’t come after all. Either way, a stint of military service might just do Hamish some good.

John tried to ignore the niggling fear at the back of his mind. He’d raised Hamish the best he could, now it was up to him.


	10. April 1938

John smiled as he brushed imagined dust from Hamish’s dress uniform. “Dad, you’re acting more nervous than I am,” Hamish laughed and gently pushed his hands away. “This wedding is more a formality, I feel married already.”

Stepping back, John looked his son over, heart bursting with pride and love. Emily was staying here of course. With Germany annexing Austria just a few weeks ago, there was a growing feeling of dread across the land even as Chamberlain tried to keep Britain neutral. Hamish had completed his medical training and wrote his father frequently, though of course Emily was most often on his mind. She shared parts of her letters with John on her frequent visits out to the island. She’d talked about just moving out there, but so far they hadn’t taken that step. She helped out Mrs. Hudson sometimes too, but another girl from town had taken over much of the day to day help.

“You look marvelous, Hamish,” Sherlock said from the doorway. John grinned and went to him, tugging him into the room so he could give him a proper kiss. Sherlock touched John’s face, no doubt noticing the gray in his hair.

“I am glad you’re here, Sherlock. Hamish is your son too.”

Hamish smiled at the pair. “We made sure the wedding would be on the right day. Emily understands. Besides, as soon as this is over you can head back to the island while we take our honeymoon.”

“London is hardly a honeymoon destination,” said John with a shake of his head.

“They couldn’t give me more leave. I promised Emily I’d take her to France one day. She told me she doesn’t need that.” The grin on his face said everything anyone would need to know about how he felt about his soon to be wife.

“I will be in the back,” said Sherlock, leaning down to steal one more kiss. John wished that Sherlock could be by his side, but of course that wasn’t proper. It was a small wedding anyway, though much talked about in the village.

Soon enough John was in his place. He looked over the small crowd. Sherlock stepped in and stood in the back once everyone was seated and focused on the proceedings. Mycroft soon joined him. Standing together, John could see the resemblance. And of course Hamish looked like both of them. Once during the ceremony Hamish glanced to the back of the room and gave a small nod.

Then the vows were said and the rings exchanged. John beamed as he watched his son take his daughter-in-law’s arm and led her back down the aisle, surrounded by friends and family. Sherlock and Mycroft were already gone as everyone filtered out for the small reception.

Mrs. Hudson insisted on having a dance with John, despite her growing frailty. When they finished Hamish pulled his father to the side and handed him a small package. “This is from Master Mycroft for Emily and me. Hold onto it for us?”

“Of course. I’ll put it in your room.” John wondered about the curious weight of it.

“It’s going to be Emily’s room when she gets back. You’re not getting younger, she’s going to keep house for you.” He patted John’s arm.

He rolled his eyes. “You mean you don’t want me living by myself with you gone. I love you too, son.”

“Not just you, it’s for Emily as well. I don’t want either of you to get too lonely. Besides, can’t have her travelling back and forth all the time in her condition.”

“In her…” John stared at Hamish.

Hamish blushed. “When I came home for that weekend two months ago, apparently.”

John pulled Hamish into a tight hug. “Congratulations.”

“I know you can keep a secret,” smiled Hamish, rubbing the back of his head. His smile slipped as he met his father’s eyes. “My child isn’t going to know me. We’re going to head out for maneuvers later this year.”

“Emily and I will make sure they do. You focus on your job and come home safe.” John cupped his cheek and met his eyes.

“Don’t do anything too crazy yourself. Maybe Master Mycroft can find someone to help you next winter.”

“We’ll see. I was doing this job since before you came into my life.”

“You aren’t twenty anymore, Dad.” There was a rising note of worry.

“Hamish.” John kept his eyes on his. “I can handle myself. The last thing I need you to do is worry about us here at home. You worry about the men under your care and your job. Emily and I and your child will be fine. You’re protecting us.”

Hamish swallowed and nodded, pulling his dad into a hug. He wiped his eyes when he pulled away. “You and Sherlock should go home, enjoy your hours.”

“Fine. You enjoy your honeymoon. Emily is a good woman. And I am very proud of you, son.”

John took a deep breath as he stepped outside. Of course he was worried about Hamish. Now he’d worry about Emily as well. Have to speak with Mrs. Hudson for advice on what to do to prepare for the baby. God, he was going to be a grandfather.

Sherlock fell into step beside him as he headed for the dock. “You are worried.”

“Did Hamish tell you Emily is pregnant?”

There was a long silence. “No. But I suspected. You are not only worried about her.”

“I’ve been having nightmares again,” admitted John. “About the war. I know the Prime Minister is trying to avoid it, but it seems like all the news is about Germany all over again.”

Sherlock’s hand brushed John’s, but he didn’t take it, as they were still in town, even if no one was out and about. “Hamish won’t do anything to foolishly endanger his life.”

John snorted. “I didn’t either.” He rubbed his shoulder and got into the boat. “Hold on, you’re not used to travelling this way.”

He got them out to the island as quickly as he safely could, taking some amusement in the way Sherlock clung to the boat. Clouds were gathering on the horizon as he helped Sherlock up onto the dock, and fat raindrops struck at them before John could get the door open. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, turning for the kitchen.

Instead Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed his neck. John moaned, relaxing in his arms. The selkie was part of his daily life, and most of the time he didn’t think too much about things he was missing. But then Sherlock was here and kissing and his hands were roaming and he wondered all over again how he’d make it another seven years without this touch. But he would, for both their sakes.

Some time later, John woke from a short nap in his bed. Sherlock was standing nude at the window, scratching something into the glass. “What are you doing?”

“A small spell. It will help with the nightmares.”

John sat up. “Like, magic?”

Sherlock gave him a tiny smile. “I am a selkie, and you are incredulous about magic? There is more to this world, my dear Watson.”

“Of course.” John got up and moved to his side, kissing his shoulder. “It’s getting late. We should eat something.”

He threw on a robe and headed downstairs. The package from Mycroft was still by the door. He picked it up and took it to Hamish’s room. Setting it on his dresser, John looked around. Emily had slept here a few times over the last couple of years and some of the clothes in the wardrobe were hers. Photos stood on the end table. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked them up. The first was a photo with Sherlock when Hamish was a boy. Another was John and Hamish that Mrs. Hudson had taken. There was a photo of John working on his boat. He hadn't known his son had even taken it until it had been developed. Finally, there was a picture of Hamish and Emily together kissing on the beach.

As he set it down, he noticed another picture tucked into a book. He took it out and saw it was a picture of Mycroft, standing, as always, alone in his office. He knew Hamish had tried to have some sort of relationship with his birth father, but the man kept everyone at arm’s length. Of course, Hamish had to try anyway. He was a good…well, man now, and married today.

 It all suddenly felt like too much.

When Sherlock found him he was crying softly, head in his hands. He sat next to John and pulled him against his chest, just holding him. John rubbed his eyes after a while and pulled away. “Tea, right,” he muttered, taking a breath and making his way unsteadily out of the room and down the stairs, Sherlock trailing after.

They ate dinner in silence. John was just grateful for Sherlock’s presence. After dinner they sat together in front of the fire, John leaning against Sherlock’s chest. It was Sherlock that broke the silence, gently nuzzling John’s hair. “You miss me when I am not here.”

John had been nearly asleep. “Of course I do. I mean, you’re always there for me out there, but times like these? My bed is very empty. But I love you, Sherlock. This is the way things will always be for us.”

“What if there was another way?”

Pulling back, John studied his face. “I’m not stealing your seal skin, if that’s what you’re implying. That would be like tying you up in my cupboard. You’d always long for the sea.”

“What if you could join me?”

“What, become a selkie?”

“There are stories, John. Perhaps with the right…”

“Sherlock.” John’s words were gentle. He leaned forward and cupped Sherlock’s face. “Perhaps. But not right now. Hamish is gone and I’m about to become a grandfather. Emily needs me here. The village still needs me. It would be a blessing if I could be with you all the time, in any form. But I chose this life knowing exactly what it would mean. I never thought I would be a father, but I am, and now that family is growing. Even if none of that happened though, the hours I get with you, just like this, make it all worth it.” He leaned forward and kissed him soundly.

There was a contended sigh as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. John made love to him right there, though he let the thought roll around the back of his mind. Being with Sherlock was always the dream, but taking care of his family had to come first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's maybe 3 more chapters left? Are you guys still enjoying this?


	11. December 1940

John sat by the radio, listening intently to the news. Emily was trying to get little Barbara to eat, but the two year old was having none of it. She had her father’s curly black hair and mother’s bright blue eyes. And a stubborn streak a mile wide.

“Here, Emily,” John got up and moved to the table. “You should rest anyway.”

Emily sighed and surrendered the spoon. She was fighting a cold John was worried might turn into pneumonia. The war had been on for just over a year. Reports about nightly bombings in London dominated the news as Germany rolled over the Continent. There hadn’t even been letters for over a month. John had never prayed so hard or so often.

John sat next to his granddaughter and picked up the spoon. She eyed him suspiciously and crossed her arms. Emily moved next to the fire and picked up some sewing, smothering a cough. “Don’t you want to grow up big and strong?” asked John, taking a spoonful for himself.

She shook her head, watching him, but her eyes darting to her mother. “Oh, I see. Worried about your mom? She’s big and strong too.”

Barbara looked up at him, then grabbed the bowl from him and started eating sloppily.

“Mister Watson,” the radio cackled to life. It was Wendy, the young woman who helped Mrs. Hudson these days.

John hurried to answer it. “Yes, Wendy.”

“Three boys went fishing this afternoon. Haven’t come back yet.”

“I’ll see to it,” he promised, getting up and going for his coat. Emily handed him a hat while Barbara just watched. John kissed her head. “Your granddad will be back soon.”

John headed out. The moon was up and full and the bay looked fairly peaceful. Hopefully the boys had just run out of fuel or something simple. He blew on his hands as he got the motor running, looking out for Sherlock on the dark waters. Even though Hamish had been gone four years now, he still missed his sharp eyes on nights like this, among many other reasons.

A sharp bark carried over the sound of the motor. John smiled despite the cold seeping into his bones. He leaned over as Sherlock made a splash so he could see him better. “Three boys, Sherlock,” he called. “Went fishing this afternoon.”

Another bark and he followed the selkie carefully. After all, they were at war, even if it wasn’t exactly on his doorstep. Yet, anyway. He’d made sure Emily knew where his gun was and how to use it.

They moved across the bay and John saw they were making for one of the small islands, hardly more than a lump of rock . With the tide coming up if the boys were there, they must be wet and freezing. He cut the engine as he approached, picking up a torch. “Hello there?”

“Mister Watson?” The voice was young and scared.

“Yes, that’s me,” John guided the boat as close to spit of rock as he could. His torch finally found the three boys huddling together for warmth. “You’re going to have to get a bit wet, but I’ve got a warm fire.”

Very carefully the three boys climbed in. John backed away from the island and brought the motor back up. “My father is going to kill me,” said one.

“He’ll be glad you’re safe and sound,” said John.

“I lost the boat though. We just went on the rocks to check for mussels. I didn’t secure it well enough and the tide took it.” He rubbed his face, shaking.

“Believe me, you three boys are a lot more valuable than a boat or some mussels and fish.” John tossed them a blanket. “We’ll get you dried and warm and home by morning.”

“How did you find us?” asked another one.

“Oh, well, they called said you were missing, just a matter of hunting in the more likely places.” He headed for home, motor drowning out the possibilities of more questions. Before long they were pulling back up to his dock. He led the trio up to the cottage. Emily had put Barbara to bed and added another log on the fire. Fresh tea was ready. John checked them over, but other than cold and wet they were fine. He reported back to town they were safe and smiled at them.

“I’ve got dry clothes and you three can all share the guest bed, should be fine by morning.” Once everything was sorted, John sat down by the fire sipping his own last cup of tea for the night. Emily had gone to bed as well, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He glanced up at a picture of Hamish on the mantle and said another of his silent prayers.

“Mister Watson?” The boy’s voice was quiet as he came down the stairs. Enoch was this boy’s name.

“Would you like another cuppa?” asked John.

“Yes sir, thank you.”

John fixed it for him and Enoch got into the other chair, blanket tucked around him. He was maybe twelve. “My dad’s off fighting. I was trying to help mum out, and now I’ve lost the boat.”

“Boats can be replaced. I’m sure your mum knows you and your friends were trying to help.” John watched him out of the corner of his eye.

“Lots of dad’s are off fighting, and brothers. I’m not big enough.” He rubbed his nose.

“By the time you’re big enough, God willing, it’ll all be over.” There was the roar of a plane nearby. John glanced at the blackout curtains, holding his breath until it moved away.

Enoch had curled up into a ball on the chair. “Jeff and Harry, they’re from London. Mum said we’re taking care of them until the wars over. “

“And you are taking good care of them, Enoch. What happened today was just an accident, everyone is fine.” John collected the mugs and put them in the kitchen.

“Do you think we’ll win?” asked Enoch softly when he returned.

“Yes,” said John without hesitation. “My son’s off fighting too.” He adjusted the blanket around the boy.

“Thank you, Mister Watson,” he yawned, falling asleep in the chair. John stayed and watched him nod off. Leaving him there, he went upstairs to check on Jeff and Harry in the guest room. They looked small in the big bed. Barbara slept with her mother in her room and he put a hand on the door as he passed it before going into his own room.

After changing into pyjamas, John went to his knees by the bed, praying again, though he’d never been a particularly religious man. Maybe tomorrow in town there would be some news. Mrs. Hudson would call him as soon there was a letter. He climbed into the empty bed and wrapped his arms around a pillow, calling to mind a memory of Sherlock wrapped up against him. Five years until he could see the sea-green eyes again. He’d be over fifty then, half his life lived in this state of waiting. But it was all worth it. Sherlock was here every day as a seal, it only made his brief moments of humanity all the more special.

John fell asleep thinking of Sherlock’s human eyes.  His dreams turned towards the war and the blood and the desperation, but every time his mind started to give into the terror, strong, slender arms would wrap around him again, turn him away, guard him from the nightmares that lingered in his heart. And John would know that he was safe and he was loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who commented on the last chapter, it was very much appreciated. I do believe there are two more chapters after this.


	12. September 1942

John hurried into Mycroft’s office without knocking. “What is it?” He asked, fear clenching at his throat.

Mycroft held an official dispatch. “He’s alive, but injured. He’s on his way home for convalescence.”

Running a hand through his hair, John took a breath, not questioning why Mycroft would have the news first. “How badly? What happened?”

“An operation in Tobruk,” he said as if John knew exactly where that was. “He was with the Royal Marines and the whole operation went badly.”

“When did he go with the Marines?” asked John, shaking his head. Hamish’s rare letters hardly ever said anything at all. “I’m sure he didn’t want me to worry.” Mycroft looked tired and drawn and he suddenly realized Mycroft probably knew a lot more about what his son had been doing then he did. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he should be angry about that. But what good would it do? Despite any claims to the contrary, Hamish was Mycroft’s son as well.

Swallowing, John went to the sideboard and poured them both a drink. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked.

Mycroft blinked as if that was the last question he expected. “I’ve been busy.”

John handed him the glass. “Drink this and go home the rest of the day.”

A frown creased Mycroft’s face. “Are you my doctor now?”

“I’ll make sure he sees you. Just do it or I will find a proper doctor to order you to bed,” he gave Mycroft a small smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

Mycroft nodded and threw back his drink. John gave him a nod in return and headed out to tell Emily and Barbara.

**

Two days later John stood at the train station with his family.  Barbara was nearly four, tugging on her mother’s hand. She knew the picture of her father very well, but aside from a brief visit when she was a baby, Hamish had been gone for years.

The train pulled in and came to a hissing stop. John nervously watched the passengers disembark. Finally there was Hamish getting slowly down off the train. He looked so much older than the last time John had seen him, thirty-four, maybe, instead of twenty-four.  His curly hair was cut short and he stared at his family a long moment, uncertain.

Emily moved first, smile on her face. Barbara hung back and reached for John’s hand. He let Emily and Hamish have long embrace. Her arms clung to his neck, his a little more cautiously around her waist. “Goon, Barbara,” John gave her a smile and nudged her towards Hamish.

She stared up at her father with wide eyes, then glanced at her mother before stepping forward. Hamish unsteadily crouched down and pulled her into a hug. John wiped away his own tears as Barbara started to cry, clinging to him.

“I’m here, Barbara, just for a little while,” said Hamish, his own voice rough. He stood reluctantly, holding her hand.

“Pick me up?” she asked, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I can’t darling. I got hurt and that’s why I’m home.” Hamish looked to where his father was still rooted to the spot.

Taking a breath, John hurried to Hamish and pulled him into a hug, feeling how thin he was under his uniform.  He picked up Hamish’s bag. “Come on, son, let’s go home.”

Sherlock was hovering near the little boat. John helped Hamish to a seat. Hamish leaned over and stroked Sherlock’s head. “I missed you too,” he said softly. Sherlock barked something and Hamish laughed a little. “I will, I promise.” Barbara stared at her dad and the seal.

John started the motor. Hamish put an arm around Emily as Barbara snuggled in between them. The air was crisp and cold as they hurried across the bay for home.

Emily helped Hamish out of the boat and up towards the cottage. Barbara held her father’s hand as if she could never be loosed. John took his time tying up the boat, wanting to give Hamish time with his wife and daughter. Sherlock barked at him. John gave him a smile. “I’m not avoiding him. He’s home for a short time, we’ll have time to talk.”

Sherlock nuzzled his hand. John stroked his head a moment. ”You can tell Mycroft he’s here. I’ll get him back to town in a day or so.”

Sherlock barked and dove, leaving John with no other choice but to go on up to the cottage. He took a breath and climbed the path. Pushing open the door he found Hamish sitting by the fire, Barbara in his lap as Emily handed him a cup of tea. They really did make a beautiful family, even with the pain and exhaustion in Hamish’s eyes.

John walked over to the radio and found a station playing music, turning it on low. Barbara started talking at her dad, telling him everything she could think of while Hamish listened, just watching her. After a while though, he winced a bit.

“I need to go take care of something with your granddad. I’m just going to be upstairs a minute, okay?”

Barbara bit her lip, but nodded, getting out of his lap reluctantly. Hamish stood, but leaned on his dad as they headed for the stairs. Helping him into his room, John carefully got him to a seat on the bed. He groaned as he lay back and started undoing his buttons.

“You got shot,” said John softly.

“At least I lived,” said Hamish with eyes closed. “It was a disaster, Dad.”

“I wish you were home for a better reason,” John pushed up Hamish's t-shirt and saw blood soaking through the dressing on his side. “Let me just wash up and I’ll change that for you.”

“I assured them my Dad was a doctor and could help me,” Hamish gave a weak smile. “Only reason they let me go home so early.”

John quickly washed up. He worked carefully to change the bandage. “You’re going back, then.”

“I have to.”

“I understand. I didn’t have a choice when I was hurt.”

Hamish watched him. “But at least you met Sherlock then, right?”

John sat next to him on the bed. “I was the same age you are now. I didn’t have anything to live for.”

“Dad?” Hamish raised up on elbow, watching him carefully.

“I tried to kill myself,” he admitted softly, looking at his hands

Hamish studied his father’s face for a few long minutes. John reached out and touched his hair. “It was a long time ago now. I’ve had a life I could have never imagined.”

“You really had nothing? I know you don’t have any family…”

“The village I was born in, they didn’t like my family. My mother died before I could remember, my father when I was twelve. I had a sister, but we didn’t get on well. I left soon as I could, but I came home when I was hurt, only to find nothing had changed. “ John sighed and rubbed his face. “They didn’t want me. One of them suggested I just do everyone a favor…so I tried to drown myself. Sherlock didn’t let me and brought me here. I owe him everything.”

“And you love him,” said Hamish, watching his father’s eyes.

“With my whole heart. And he loves me.” Even though Hamish was far too old for it, John leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “And you’re my son and I love you. I am so proud of you.”

Now it was Hamish that looked away. “I should have told you about the Royal Marines. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I will always worry about you, regardless. I know what war is like.”

“How did you get through it, without anyone at home? I mean, me, every day, I know I’m fighting for you and Emily and Barbara. Some of the things I’ve seen…I’m so glad you’re here and safe.”

“I always had soldiers to take care of, that needed me. That’s why when I got home…I didn’t know what to do any more.” John stood up and futzed with some things on the dresser. “I…had an offer to go to London, become a proper doctor.”

“But you didn't.”

John turned and met his eyes. “After all I’d seen and done, the last thing I wanted to do was have another life slip away in my hands.”

“But you still help people. And you’re so good at it, Dad. When this over, when I come home properly, I’m picking up right here.”

“And I’m glad for that. Not getting any younger, after all. You know Mycroft will always have a place for us here.”

“He’s a better man then he thinks too.” Hamish sat up, buttoning his shirt. “I will visit him while I’m here.”

“He’ll like that. Now, don’t overexert yourself. I think Emily is fixing dinner.”

Hamish nodded and took his dad’s arm. He paused in the doorway, looking again into his father’s eyes. “Thank you so much, for taking care of them. The other thing I’m doing when I come home for good is taking care of you.”

John wondered, but smiled. “Hopefully the war will be over while you’re home convalescing.”

Hamish chuckled. “I doubt that very much. Come on.”


	13. April 1945

John woke early, slipping downstairs to the kitchen, tingling with excitement.  It had been a rough couple weeks, Hamish home again after another injury, this one worse than before. But he was getting stronger by the day. Today Sherlock would be here. They’d talked to Barbara about it, and he hoped she’d take it as well as Hamish had at the same age. And the war felt like it was wrapping up as well. Hamish had already been assured he would be discharged honorably. Privately John suspected Mycroft had something to do with it, but Hamish hadn’t been upset about the news.

The kettle came to a boil and he poured himself a cuppa. “Granddad?” Barbara appeared behind him, barefoot and robe wrapped tight around her.

“Morning,” John smiled, getting her a cup of her own. She’d proven to be an early riser and it wasn’t the first time she’d joined him for a morning cup.

“When do I get to see Grandpa Sherlock?”

“Soon, he’ll be here just after dawn.” He’d made the point of leaving some clothes for the selkie down in the boat.

“Dad and Mum are excited too, but not as excited as you.”

“Well he means something different to me.” John started fixing breakfast.

Barbara watched him. “You talk to him even though you can’t understand him.” 

John kept working. “Seen me do that, eh? I didn’t know you were watching.” He glanced at the window and saw the sun just gracing the horizon. He smiled and a few moments later there was a knock at the door. “Go on, that’s him.”

Barbra got up and hurried for the door. John watched as she pulled it open and stared up at Sherlock. Sherlock stared right back. The clothes were Hamish’s and hung oddly on him. "Hi Grandpa." She said at last, reaching in to hug his waist.

"Barbara," he awkwardly hugged her back, looking at John.

John smiled and took the eggs off the stove before hurrying over and kissing him gently.

"Papa!" John pulled away as Hamish called from the stairs. He leaned on a cane as he made his way down to them and hugged Sherlock. Emily came just behind them. John's heart felt full to bursting as he looked at his family. So much more than he'd ever dreamed.

"Come on, I made breakfast."

They settled around the table. He smiled at Sherlock as they ate. When the finished Hamish looked at his daughter. "Let’s go on down to the beach. I need to stretch my leg. Let your grandparents have some time."

Barbara looked at them. "Okay." She took her father's hand and let herself be led out of the house, Emily getting the door before taking Hamish's hand.

John got up and moved to Sherlock. The selkie ran a hand through his hair as if counting the grays. John kissed him. "I'm not twenty-four anymore."

"How old are you?"

"Fifty-two." He studied Sherlock's face. "You've hardly aged."

"We do not age as fast. Hamish should have a long life."

"Now that he's home." John touched his cheek. "You'll outlive me."

Sherlock studied his eyes. "Hamish _is_ home. What I said last time I was here..."

John's heart stopped. "There is a way I can be with you? All the time?"

"Same restrictions. Human one day every seven years. But you can see our family grow. We can help Hamish with the work.”

“And I could be with you.”

“It would be an adjustment. You have never been a seal before.”

John chuckled. “That is true. But to be with you? I’d learn.”

Sherlock leaned down to kiss him. John sighed into the kiss. “What do we have to do?”

“Mycroft gave Hamish and Emily a package on their wedding day. I’ve been speaking with Hamish.”

John blinked a few times. “I remember the package, yes. But Hamish has only been home a couple weeks.”

“Emily has been researching as well.” Sherlock carded his hand through John’s hair.

John looked up at him. “You’ve all been planning this a long time, haven’t you?”

“Years,” admitted Sherlock. “But I knew you would never take the steps while you still had mortal obligations.”

John chuckled. “Mortal obligations is one way to put it.” He led Sherlock to the fireplace and sat next to him on the couch. “Barbara will miss me.”

“You’ll still be around, just as I am. Hamish is here now.”

“She hardly knows her father,” said John sadly. “But he’s trying hard to make up for lost time.”

Sherlock caught John’s chin and kissed him deeply. John’s heart skipped. Could it really be possible, to be with this man, this selkie, all the time?

The door opened and he pulled away as Barbara came in ahead of her parents. She looked at the pair on the couch. “Come here, darling,” said John.

Barbara came over and curled up in his lap. “Yes, Grandad?”

John took a breath, looking at Sherlock, then at Hamish and Emily. Hamish gingerly lowered himself into a chair, rubbing his leg. “You know how Grandpa Sherlock is a seal most of the time?”

There was a tiny nod. “Are you gonna become a seal too?”

“Yes. But I want you to know that doesn’t mean I don’t love you a lot.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He rocked her gently, tears stinging his eyes. “And I know you’ll take care of whatever little brothers and sisters you have and your mom and dad.”

“Can we go fishing?” She asked after a long moment.

“Of course.”

“Papa and I can stay here,” said Hamish. “Need to work on things anyway.”

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock again. He reminded himself that after today he’d be with his love all the time, so today should belong to Barbara.

Before long they were taking the boat out with just a bit of fishing gear. Barbara was quiet as they went to one of his favorite spots. They didn’t need to talk as they sat together. She leaned against him as the morning drifted into afternoon.  John kissed her hair as she fell asleep. 

Leaving Barbara would be hard; after all she’d been like his own daughter with Hamish gone all these years. But, he reminded himself, he’d still be around. He’d still see her grow. He wiped his eyes and said a silent prayer for his family before turning the boat for home.

To his surprise there was another boat tied up to the dock. Barbara woke up they bumped against it and rubbed her eyes. “Come on, I bet they have lunch,” smiled John, picking her up and setting her on the dock. He held her hand as they went on up the path.

He pushed the door open and was shocked to find Mycroft sitting at his table, sipping a cup of tea. “Master Mycroft,” he said.

“Mister Watson. I am here to help.”

He didn’t have to ask with what. Barbara gave a little curtsey and went to her mother. Hamish put sandwiches on the table. It was odd, sitting at the table with Mycroft included. With Hamish sitting next to Mycroft and Sherlock it was once again obvious to John just where he got his looks from. He felt at peace though; Mycroft would take care of him if he could not.

After lunch, Hamish grabbed his cane and gestured for his Dad to join him outside. “How’s the leg?” asked John.

“Getting better,” said Hamish, walking with him to where they could overlook the sea. “I want you to do this.”

“I know.” John stopped and looked out to the horizon. “And I want this. I love him, Hamish.”

Hamish put an arm around his father. “All I wanted to do was survive and come home and give you this.”

“I prayed for you. Never been a religious man. But I did.”

“Me too though,” said Hamish. “No atheists in foxholes, they say.” He shook his head. “What I saw…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” John squeezed his shoulder. “I know.”

Hamish gave him a smile and shifted his cane. “I’ll probably be off this cane in a few months. I can pick up the work right where you left off. We never had that many calls in the summer anyway.”

“Focus on your family, Hamish. Barbara is going to need you.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Dad…”

“Hamish.” John faced his son. He reached up and touched his cheek. “It’s been my honor. You’re a good man.”

“I’m the man I am because of you.”

John hugged him for a long time. Hamish finally broke the hug. “Come on, we should get ready for tonight.”

That evening, John put Barbara to bed, reading her one last story before tucking her in and kissing her forehead. Going downstairs he found the others waiting for him. Sherlock took his hand and led him outside. A moon lay half full in the sky as they headed for the water. Nerves bubbled in John’s stomach.

Sherlock stripped as they reached the water’s edge. Taking a deep breath, John did the same, blushing a bit in front of his son and daughter-in-law. With a tiny smile, Sherlock led him into the cool water until they were standing waist deep.

Mycroft and Hamish opened the package, revealing a small chest. Opening it, Mycroft took out a length of green rope. “Kelp,” he said. He looked at the pair standing in the water. John shivered. “Take hands,” he ordered. Sherlock took John’s right in his own.

Mycroft moved into the water, ignoring his own clothes getting wet. He wrapped the kelp rope around both their hands. “Sherlock, do you promise to love John like the water loves the shore, lead him like the moon leads the sun and follow like the tides? Do you promise that your magic will keep him safe, warm and fed for all the days of your life together?  Do you promise to love John with all your heart for all eternity?”

“I do,” said Sherlock without hesitation.

John hadn’t been expecting a marriage ceremony as part of all this, but he didn’t mind a bit. Mycroft looked at him. “John, do you promise to love Sherlock like the water loves the shore, lead him like the moon leads the sun and follow like the tides? Do you swear to comfort and protect him in darkness and in light for all the days of your life together? Do you promise to love Sherlock with all your heart for all eternity?”

“I do. Always,” answered John, smiling up at Sherlock.

Mycroft looked at Hamish. Hamish stepped forward with two necklaces made of shells. Mycroft put them over their necks, then took another shell from Emily. Sherlock met John’s eyes and drank from it, then put it to his lover's lips, whispering words. Mycroft joined in, then Hamish and the air turned electric. John felt the liquid, cool, salty and sweet, touch his tongue and the world rocked. Sherlock wrapped an arm around him, keeping the liquid dribbling as he held him up.

John gasped, his eyes full of the moon as he went limp in Sherlock’s arms. Slowly Sherlock lowered him into the water like a baptism. He fought for a moment as the water covered his head. Then he gasped  and found that he could breathe water like air. The kelp rope slipped loose as they both changed. Sherlock nudged him and guided him out into the bay. John followed without looking back, still amazed by his new body and these new sensations.

 

**

Moonlight guided the woman’s path as she made her way down to the shore. Behind her the family slept soundly. She ran a hand through her wild dark hair and pulled her jacket tighter around her nightgown.

Reaching the waters edge she sat, looking out at the bay. After a few long minutes of just the waves lapping at the shore, a seal heaved itself out and made his way up to her. She smiled at the gray whiskers. “Hi Grandad.”

He gave a quiet bark in response.

“Dad’s doing better. I mean, it’s going to take him a long time to get over losing mum.” She stroked his head. “But Joseph is doing well with Master Mycroft and Molly is going to London to be a doctor next year. Of course Colin won’t leave the island for anything.”

He nudged her hand with the simple silver ring.

She smiled. “Yes, my William is a big help to Dad. John’s going to be starting school in a couple weeks. He even looks like you, you know. I can’t wait for him to meet you properly. Amelia follows him around like a shadow. You did good Grandad.”

He gave a louder bark. Barbara turned and smiled at the little boy making his way down the hill. “John,” she scolded. “You’ll give your grandfather a fright.”

She got up and picked him up. “This is your great grandfather,” she said, sitting again. He reached a chubby hand out to stroke the seals head. “I named you for him.”

The other seal moved out of the water. “And your other great grandfather. They watch over us.”

John yawned and she bent to kiss his head. “I need to put him back to bed. I’ll talk to you soon.” She leaned down and planted a kiss on both their heads.

They turned for the cottage with a kelp wreath over the door in the shape of a heart. The two seals gave a final bark and slipped back into the water. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, thank you muchly to inusagi for the vows and giving it a final once over.
> 
> For the fic as a whole: This has been my pleasure to write, and I want to thank all of you for reading. I know there's things I skipped over and other stories and years I could have touched on, but this has been a great experience for me.
> 
> Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


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